Over the past few weeks, a head of red hair has been appearing in your usual café – drifting, in and out of sight, settling in solitary seats all by themselves.

Never with anyone else, never making conversation – always fixing her dark, inky black eyes on her laptop or book of choice for the week, her long black nails prying at pages, clicking at tables, plucking straws – she was a lady of mystery. Black was a predominant colour in her being, save for her vibrant ruby hair, ghostly skin and her apparent demeanour – this tendency to bounce about, stride with vigour and smile convincingly when needed to.

It was with this smile that she greeted you one day, suddenly sitting down opposite while you were indulging in your daily depressing dose of caffeine.

“I see you here almost… every single day. I swear. You’re one of the regulars, aren’t you?”